Juxtapositions.
Okay. Bad start. The one word intro. Not something I want to be my signature. Sure. Maybe you do it sometimes. Especially in the blogosphere. (A place, or a corrupt midwestern ex-governor?)
But that first word thing bothers me because a locally prominent writer, from around my area, used to lead his columns with that. And then launch into some egregiously not-very-good writing.
Odd. He had a health crisis, this local writer. And suddenly I actually started enjoying his writing, and even found myself looking forward to reading it.
The health issues just seemed to free up his writing. It flowed and spoke.
The crisis passed, and then he went back to stiff, closed-in, not-much-going-on writing.
It was like he had this block, and his attempts at hard hitting commentary, poignant memoir, ironic memoir, whatever; it would all just be flat and stilted. And would frankly scare the crap out of me as a writer.
No worse fear than considering that maybe you just kind of suck. At what you do. And, at who you are.
Speaking of which, let’s launch into my oddly juxtapositional, probably not-much-going-on rumination of this particular day.
John Cheever.
http://goo.gl/4nJgU
Wavy Gravy.
http://goo.gl/zxORX
Jim Morrison.
http://goo.gl/pWXm9
Why, you may ask?
Well. As much as anything, because I tried to come up with something yesterday, and just ended up sitting there staring, and rocking back and forth autistically. Happens a lot when I try to write. Oh well.
So, I figured that I better spit out something, anything, today.
Hmm. We lack balance. There are only three people.
Let’s see. We’ve got Wavy Gravy and Jim Morrison. So what do we add on the Cheever side?
How about vaguely Cheeveresque P. R. dude, who was father of college friend?
He didn’t write like Cheever. Not as far as I know. But, Lordy, who does? Who could?
But he seemed sort of Cheevery when I met him. Rather liked him. He was funny, urbane and stuff.
Sadly the Cheeverian quality extended to the second and last time I saw the man. At the college friend’s wedding, a quivering, shaky, beaten down, way too young man. Drink and ego and vanity, I guess.
Which is scary for all of us. I mean I don’t drink much, but my fake humility conceals ridiculously deep reservoirs of ego and vanity.
Okay. So the balance is established. I mean, that is, if this is a balanced piece. Which, umm. Okay. Likely it’s not.
But I’m tryin’. I just don’t want to let Dirk and Carlton down. So I’m tryin’ hard.
Okay. Why Cheever?
Well. Why not?
Actually, there is a reason. I was surfing The New Republic. And, from the archives, their was a review of Cheever’s recently published journals, and the review was written by John Updike.
And yeah, I was saying ‘whoa’ after reading it as much as I was before reading it.
As an attempted writer, I’m just not worthy.
But, I am consoled by this thought. Who on earth is worthy?
That’s some company. Boy, is it.
And yeah, it brought back memories of how floored I was going through Cheever’s short stories as I read through John Updike recalling how floored he was by Cheever’s work.
And yes, the journals blew me away. And likely everybody that’s read them, including Mr. Updike.
My reflection? While my sorry life may not be quite the train wreck of Mr. Cheever’s, I don’t write so good either.
Okay. As far as reflections go, that’s not much, is it?
But I don’t think that’s my point.
What is my point, then?
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Hmmm.
I think it’s this. If you’ve ever put pen to paper to express your feelings, or if you’ve ever reflected at all on the poignant, joyous agony of life; well, read Cheever, and prepare to have your jaw drop.
And just for a sheer ‘wow’ experience. Read Updike reading Cheever.
WOW.
Hmm. Now that’s the point.
WOW.
(Man, I bet Dirk is gonna think this sucks. Am I screwed, or what?)
Okay. So the other two reflections?
Let’s do the Morrison thing first.
I have to start this with ‘umm’. Sorry. I just do.
Umm. Why is this even in the paper, other than it being a curiosity? And why does Governor Crist care at all, and why does anybody else?
I mean, I’m sure Jim Morrison isn’t too concerned at this point as to whether or not he’s ‘pardoned’ for pulling his pud out on stage more than forty years ago.
C’mon now. Really.
I mean if he was around, and had retired to Sarasota; sure, maybe he’d like to be able to have cast his vote for Rubio. But the pardon would be too late for that. So. Cosmically, karmically, spiritually, whatever; I have a feeling Jim isn’t sweating it too much.
Hell. If the world was functioning properly, the only way the words ‘Florida’ and ‘pardon’ would be juxtaposed about now, would be if we were considering pardoning the criminality of those who assed up the 2000 election, and, by extension, the current state of our country.
Lordy. It makes Watergate look like …
Umm. Well. It makes Watergate look like pulling out your pud onstage at a rock concert.
Anyhow, on to other fish fries.
Wavy Gravy.
I’m like, wow, man. He’s still around?
Apparently he is. And apparently somebody has made a movie about him.
My thoughts?
Well. I’ve gotta say, I’m sort of ambivalent about the legacy of the boomers. We don’t seem on track to really leave much behind. Much good that is.
I mean, sure. Sometimes I might look at Woodstock clips, or watch The Easy Rider movie and feel some adrenaline, and feel the urge to become extremely intoxicated, howl at the moon, and generally just raise hell, and not give a hoot about anything except indulging.
(Yeah. Sure, boomers got some business looking at Cheeverian elders, and feigning shock and disgust. He was just ahead of his time.)
But generally, I consider it all — the arc of life of the baby boom brats, me included — and I come up with something like this.
Then?
Sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, alcohol, etc. And all that attitude. With a slight, affected patina of caring and feeling real deeply man.
And now?
Blow job in the White House. Mindless boob launching us into mindless, half-assed wars. Financial, actuarial, and demographic nightmares. And more.
But then. There’s this Wavy Gravy character.
It seems Mr. Gravy has quietly and steadfastly spent his life as a fool.
And no, I don’t mean that in a bad way. After all, some — rather dumbly on reflection — would go around, in between tokes, saying things like Christ was the first hippie.
(Put it succinctly, Steve. Before Dirk goes ape shit.)
In the days of the Apostles, people were called to be fools for Christ. And while I don’t recall The Sermon on The Mount going on much about getting high or blow jobs, I think it may have touched on living life as Mr. Gravy seems to be living his.
Doing no harm. And giving, giving, giving. Quietly and with a sort of silly, giggly joy.
Of course, then again, being seventy-four, he’s not exactly a boomer.
But as for being the right kind of fool?
Mr. Gravy might be on to something.
